


All is Calm, All is Bright

by sofia_gigante



Series: Dark Knight, Bright Son [6]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Christmas, Clarks shows Bruce his childhood home, Coming Out, Domestic, Established Relationship, Family, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holiday, M/M, SuperBat, feeling sad at the holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Ma, Pa, this is Bruce Wayne. My boyfriend.” </i>
</p>
<p>There’s only one thing Clark wants for Christmas—all the people he loves together for the holidays. Though Bruce is happy to make Clark’s wish come true, he quietly grapples with his own feelings of loss and loneliness amid the festivities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All is Calm, All is Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [万暗中，光华射](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866114) by [ginettecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginettecat/pseuds/ginettecat)



> Happy ~~Easter~~ BvS weekend, it's a Christmas fic! I'm only, ooooh, three months behind with this one. Thank you, continuing readers, for your patience.
> 
> An extra-big thank you to Castillon02 for the wonderfully thorough beta-read.
> 
> This takes place a few weeks after the events of [Breaking New Ground](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5248466), though can be enjoyed on its own.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

Clark sat alone on the back porch of the Kent’s farm house. He could hear his parents having dinner inside, chatting quietly about moving the animals to the barn before the big storm hit later this week.  With his sense of super-smell, he could practically pick out every ingredient in their vegetable soup, and he realized that it had been years since he’d had a bowl. He knew he should go inside and join them, surprise them with this little visit. Instead, he stayed put on the frost-covered bench, staring down at his hands in his lap.

He was shaking.

Him, Superman, shaking.

He swallowed hard, balling his hands into fists. He focused his gaze instead on one of the tiny Christmas lights on the strand wrapped around the porch column. With his super-vision, he could see the circuits within, the coil of hair-thin wires, the microscopic cracks in the blue paint. He watched the electricity ripple down the wire, turning the colorful lights on, off, on, off…

_That blue light. The same color as Bruce’s eyes._

Clark’s lungs constricted, his heart squeezing tight. Bruce. This was why he was doing this. For Bruce.

He could do this.

He stood up, took a deep breath, and rapped on the kitchen door in warning a second before opening it. His parents looked up from their meal, surprise becoming pleasure as they saw who it was.

“Clark, honey! We weren’t expecting you for a few days yet!” his mother said with a smile. “What a lovely early Christmas present!”

Clark swallowed hard. He hoped they felt the same way after he told them why he was here.

“Let me fix you a bowl.” She got to her feet, but Clark waved her back down.

“It’s OK, Ma. I’m not hungry.”

Both of his parents stopped and stared at him in shock. Clark realized his error. They knew he didn’t need food, was never ‘hungry’ the way a human was, but he always, always took a plate to be polite. Unless…

“Then why don’t you sit down and tell us what’s on your mind, son,” his father said, the gentleness in his gruff tone almost too much for Clark to bear.

Clark nodded, steeling himself as he took a seat at the table. His seat. The one closest to the door, on his father’s left. It was where he’d sat for almost every meal his mother had ever cooked for him. He’d grown up at this table. He still remembered a time when his feet didn’t touch the floor, and how he loved swinging his legs while he ate. He’d fed the dog scraps under this table. He’d written countless book reports, built model planes with his father here. This table was where they’d sat when they’d finally told him about how they’d come to find him in that crater in the field, and where they’d discussed his plans for his future in Metropolis. Every important conversation he’d ever had with his parents had happened here, and now, he was going to add one more.  

“So, um, do you remember….you remember at Thanksgiving, how…how I left to go see…see a friend?” His parents nodded, and he could see the first glimmers of suspicion in their eyes. “There’s…there’s something I need to tell you. Something important. About him.” He took a deep breath. Here went everything. “And…and about me.”

 

**********

“The closest airfield to the Kents’ farm is 20 miles away.” Bruce pointed to the map on the Batcomputer’s monitor. “Arrange for a rental car to be ready once the jet lands at 3 p.m.”

Alfred placed Bruce’s covered dinner tray down on the table beside the computer. “Sir, if we take the L-100 plane, we can bring the Rolls Royce with us. A rental won’t be necessary.”

“No.” Bruce thought of his father’s black 1949 Wraith with its sleek, classic curves. It was his formal car, used for when Bruce Wayne needed to be seen at a high-profile charity event or opera opening night. Driving up to the Kent family’s farmhouse in it would be an almost vulgar display of wealth, and if Clark had a hard enough time dealing with Bruce’s fortune, he could only imagine how his parents would react.

Hell, Bruce had no idea how Clark’s parents would react to _anything_ , for that matter. Clark had only left a brief message on Bruce’s voicemail this morning telling him that the visit was on, but he hadn’t elaborated on the details. Bruce could only assume that Clark’s talk with his parents had gone well. Bruce had offered to come with him, but Clark had said that this was something he had to do on his own, and he could respect that. If their roles were reversed, he knew he’d feel the same way.   

Not that he would ever have that chance…

“It doesn’t have to be the Wraith, sir,” Alfred said, breaking through his dark thoughts.  “We could take the Tesla if you prefer.”

“No. Just have a regular Lexus sedan ready for me.” Bruce typed a few commands and replaced the map of Kansas with his usual map of Gotham. He’d distracted himself enough for one night. He still had three days until Christmas. There was plenty to keep his mind occupied until then.

Alfred lifted the cover off of the tray, and the smell of rich tomato broth hit Bruce’s nose. “Master Bruce, I can’t help but notice you keep saying ‘I’ rather than ‘we’ when discussing this Christmas trip to Mr. Kent’s family farm.”

Inwardly, Bruce cringed. Outwardly, he merely took the bowl of offered soup without taking his eyes off the map in front of him. If Killer Croc had last been seen at that sewer junction there…

“You do know I’m coming with you, don’t you, Sir?”

“We’ll have our own celebration in the morning,” Bruce let a note of apology edge his words, “and then I’ll go have an early dinner with the Kents. I’ll program the batplane to pick me up afterwards so I can be back in Gotham shortly after nightfall. I’ll only be gone for a few hours. I don’t need you to come with me.”

Bruce brought a spoonful up to his lips. Vegetable soup. One of his favorites.

“With all due respect, Master Bruce…I think you do.”

Alfred’s stern tone finally forced Bruce’s attention away from the monitors. Alfred met his eyes with his unflinching gaze. He was probably the only person on Earth who could do so. Even Clark looked away eventually, but Alfred never, ever recoiled.

“I don’t think you quite understand what you’ve volunteered for.” Alfred’s tone was a bit gentler this time.

“Glazed ham. Christmas carols. Helping Clark find peace with himself.” Bruce shrugged, pretending he didn’t know what Alfred was getting at. “I’m doing this for him.”

“And I think that is most admirable. But…” Alfred’s gaze finally wavered. “Christmas is a…a difficult time for you.”

Bruce returned his attention back to the screen. He’d found traces of the chemicals Killer Croc had absorbed in their fight at Ace Chemicals both here and here…

“I’m sure Mr. Kent and his parents will be the most gracious of hosts, but—”

“You think I’m going to have a hard time seeing Clark with his parents. You think it’s going to upset me.”

“Yes. I do. It’s happened before. Do you remember the Van Houtens’ Christmas party?”

“I was still a boy.” Bruce’s jaw clenched, and he pushed back against the swell of bitter memories. The Van Houtens had only been trying to be kind to their son’s new friend. They couldn’t have known that Bruce would spend the last half of the Christmas party hiding in a coat closet, sobbing.

“And you haven’t celebrated the holidays with anyone but me since,” Alfred said. “You’ve come a long way, Sir, but I think you may need a familiar face more than you think.”

Bruce was quiet for a long time. Part of him wished he’d never agreed to do this. Even the memory of the sheer, radiant joy on Clark’s face when Bruce had accepted wasn’t enough to banish Bruce’s doubts. And as much as Clark insisted he’d be there for Bruce, he was going to be wrapped up in his own emotions, his own desires. Maybe…maybe having Alfred there wouldn’t be such a bad idea. An anchor of sorts.

“Fine. You can come, too.”

“Oh, you misunderstand, sir. I wasn’t asking your permission,” Alfred said, his tone suddenly blithe.

Bruce started, and turned to Alfred. “Then what—”

“Mr. Kent called the manor to invite me this afternoon, and I accepted. I just thought you should be prepared when I boarded the plane with you.” He put the lid on the empty tray and turned, heading towards the stairs. “I’ll arrange for a rental for us, Sir, since that is your preference.”

Bruce shook his head as he returned to work, swallowing another mouthful of soup.

Alfred.

What would he do without him?

 

**********

The Kansas wind whipped hard and sharp across the airfield, throwing flurries of snow into Bruce’s face. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. For once, he found himself missing his cowled mask, with its insulated lining and the night-vision goggles that could be dropped down to protect his eyes in inclement weather.  

_Is that the only reason you wish you had your mask today, Bruce?_

“Master Bruce, I think we arrived just in time!” Alfred had to yell to be heard over the howl of the wind and through the thick, knit muffler he’d pulled up over his nose. “The storm must be blowing in early!”

Bruce scowled as the furious wind tried to snatch the gift bags he was holding out of his hands. He’d seen the storm front blowing in on the Batcomputer’s weather map this morning, so he’d moved the flight to an earlier time. The Kents wouldn’t be expecting them for another couple of hours yet, but he and Alfred had had little choice if they’d wanted to get here and back to Gotham before the storm grounded the jet.  

By the time they reached the airport’s one small building, they were thoroughly disheveled. Bruce brushed his black wool coat with his gloved hand as he looked around the little office with its single, bored-looking attendant. He was just about to approach and ask about the car rental when the door across the way opened, and a tall, broad, snowy silhouette stumbled in. The man pulled down his fur-lined hood, revealing a gorgeously familiar face. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold coursed through Bruce from head to toe, forcing his cold lips to spread into a smile.

“Clark?” Bruce couldn’t contain his surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking you guys up, of course!” Clark chuckled. He strode up to Bruce with that earnest, lopsided smile of his, his black hair wild and snow-flecked, his thick glasses frosted over with condensation. Bruce had to resist the urge to pull them off Clark’s face, see the brilliant blue eyes hiding underneath…kiss that pleased little smile off his face. It had been too long. Any time away from Clark was too long.

Clark’s cheeks took on a slightly redder hue, and Bruce wondered—not for the first time—if Clark could actually hear his thoughts. Clark had assured him on multiple occasions that mind-reading was definitely not on his list of super-powers, it was simply a matter of deducing pupil dilation, rate of pulse, and quickening of breath. Bruce prided himself on being able to control his emotions, his reactions…but with Kal, he could hide nothing. It bothered him less and less each day.

“How did you know we were coming early?” Alfred asked, pulling his muffler down from his mouth.

“I asked Billy here to keep an eye on your flight.” Clark nodded at the attendant, who gave a lazy wave without tearing his eyes away from his crossword puzzle. “He called and told me when the time changed. I figured it would be best to pick you up myself, with the weather and all.” Clark fixed Bruce with a mock-irritated look. “You could’ve called and told me yourself, you know.”

“And spoil the surprise?” Bruce waved his hand dismissively, though deep down he squirmed in discomfort. He should have told Clark, he supposed, but he hadn’t wanted to disrupt Clark’s time alone with his parents. He knew how rare it was, how precious, how quickly it could all be taken away…

“Can I help you with those?” Clark asked quietly, reaching for Bruce’s bags. His hand brushed over Bruce’s and lingered for a moment, just as he looked at him over the thick rims of his glasses.  Bruce could practically read what Clark was asking, his eyes so blue, so caring— _Are you okay?_  

Instead of soothing him, though, it…it struck an odd nerve. An unexpectedly annoyed nerve. “I’ve got them, thanks.” Bruce pulled his hand back gently, trying to move naturally, and turned his head under the guise of nodding towards Alfred. “But Alfred might like some help.”

“Ah yes, because I am so very old and frail that I cannot handle a few Christmas gifts and a plum pudding.” Alfred sighed a long-suffering sigh.

“All right, tough guys, let’s get to the car before the storm really gets going,” Clark said, and though his tone was cheerful, Bruce could detect the hint of nervousness edging his words. Bruce inwardly winced. He was here to support Clark. He shouldn’t be making things harder with his own strange moods.

“This isn’t the storm?” Alfred asked as they followed Clark towards the door out of the airport.

“No, it won’t hit hard until tonight, after you guys leave.” Clark pushed the door and the frigid wind caught it, slamming it open with a scream. He gave Alfred a mischievous smile as he pulled up his hood. “Welcome to Kansas.”

Bruce braced himself as he followed Clark out into the furious wind sweeping through the parking lot. If the storm arrived early, it might complicate his plans to return to Gotham in a few hours for his nightly patrol—or if the watch linked to the Batcomputer alerted him to a dire situation that called for Batman. His one-seat Batplane could handle a blizzard, even on autopilot, but what about Alfred? If the weather grounded their private jet, then how would Bruce explain his departure without Alfred? He couldn’t leave him at the Kents’ farm, and he certainly wasn’t going to abandon Alfred in a snow-locked Kansas airport for the night. Maybe he could ask Clark to give him a “lift” back home, if Alfred bundled up tightly…

By the time he was buckled up in the passenger seat of Clark’s old Jeep Grand Cherokee, he had at least five different escape plans in place. Each was a bit more complicated than the last, but he had to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

As they waited for the car’s engine to warm up, Clark finally took off his glasses and ran his fingers through his damp hair. Bruce’s heart did a flip against his ribs, his breath stopping short. _There_ was Kal-El. Not Clark. Not Superman. Kal-El. _His_ Kal-El. The reason he was here.

With Alfred in the back seat fussing over the gift bags, Bruce couldn’t give into the temptation to simply pull Kal to him and steal the kiss he’d been aching for since he’d heard Kal’s voice on the phone three days before. Instead, Bruce yanked off one of his gloves, and reached out to place a hand on the back of Kal’s. Kal turned to him, pleasure and surprise mingling on his face, and he twined his fingers in Bruce’s. Bruce could feel the carefully checked power in his grip, and it filled him with quiet awe. Kal could create diamonds out of coal with a single hard squeeze, or rip a vault door off as easily as tearing tissue paper. But even without his special kryptonite ring, Bruce didn’t fear Kal’s touch. He trusted his control, his care. Kal would never hurt him.

“Thank you for coming,” Kal said, and the quiet sincerity in his voice made Bruce’s belly quiver.

_For you, Kal-El, anything._ Bruce couldn’t say it, though, not with Alfred so close, not when he was already fighting to keep so many other emotions in check. Instead, he only smiled, as genuinely as he could. Bruce had smiled more in the past seven months than he had in the past twenty years…and he owed it all him.

A quiet cough from the back seat broke the moment, and Bruce gave Kal’s hand one more squeeze before letting go. Kal flushed, looking as guilty as a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and busied himself with wiping the moisture from his glasses. He slid them back on, and he was Clark once more.

“Are you really going to be okay driving in this?” Bruce looked out the window at the flurries of snow that the wind was scattering across the road, using his concern to smooth the awkward moment.

Clark disengaged the parking brake and put the car into reverse. “Been driving in weather like this since I was fifteen.”

“I’m sure the super-vision and reflexes help,” Bruce said, watching as Clark barely avoided backing into a post that had simply materialized out of the grim weather.

“Doesn’t hurt,” Clark admitted, “but a lot of it is the car. A Lexus wouldn’t stand a chance in this wind.”

Bruce shook his head. Either Clark had asked his friend Billy about their rental plans…or he just knew Bruce _that_ well. Clark just winked at him through his thick lenses, and maneuvered the car onto the empty road.

“Just relax, guys,” Clark said, “We’ll be there before you know it.”

 

**********

They reached the farm with no incidents, even with the wind picking up more force. Clark had driven as quickly and as he safely could, but within five miles of home his windshield had almost gone completely white with all the snow being thrown back up by the wind from the road. If not for his super-vision, he would’ve been forced to pull over and wait, and he was grateful that he hadn’t passed anyone foolish or needy enough to be out in this weather on Christmas day.

After making sure Bruce and Alfred had bundled up and were holding tight to their packages, Clark led them from the driveway to the house. He held Bruce’s arm, and Bruce linked his arm in Alfred’s as they struggled to the door. Clark resisted the urge to simply pick them up and carry them the short distance. It was already going to be an undignified enough entrance, and he didn’t know who’d be more offended, Bruce or Alfred.

The second they stepped onto the porch his mother was already opening the front door, waving them in encouragingly. “Come in before you blow away!”

As Clark hurried his guests through the door, he was immediately hit with a wall of warmth. Not just the heat from the oil heater and wood-burning stove, but the smells of baking spices and roasting ham, the merry sounds of Christmas carols from the old CD player in the living room, and the shining gold balls glinting from the evergreen garlands draping the staircase banister. At the center of it all was his mother, flushed and lovely, wearing her favorite black Christmas sweater with the sequined red poinsettias on it. Clark had bought it for her in Metropolis his first year working at the _Planet_ , and she had worn it every Christmas since.

His father came in just as she was taking the bags from Alfred, and he set to work taking coats and mufflers. Clark marveled at the easy banter that was already flowing amid the flurry of activity.

“I hope your flight wasn’t too difficult in this weather.”

“No, not at all, my pilot’s one of the best.”

“Here, let me take that for you.”

“Thank you, but do be careful to hold that package upright. The pudding’s in there.”

However, once the wet coats had been hung in the mudroom to dry, the presents placed under the tree, and the food taken to the kitchen, a strange lull fell over the group. Clark’s belly knotted, his palms tingling. This was it, wasn’t it? The moment he’d planned, had been preparing everyone for. He swallowed hard as he stepped over to Bruce. He looked outwardly calm, but Clark could read the touch of nervousness in his eyes. Even so, he nodded slightly, gave him a reassuring little smile. It was the boost that Clark needed.

“Ma, Pa, this is Bruce Wayne. My boyfriend.” His words rang through the room, clear and bright as the bells chiming from the stereo. Never, in all of his life, had Clark imagined he’d be saying those words in this place. He didn’t know what part of that sentence was more surreal, and he placed a hand on Bruce’s arm to steady himself, convince himself that he was real, solid, here.

His father stuck out his hand to Bruce, which Bruce took in a firm handshake. “A pleasure to meet you, Bruce. I’m Jonathan, and this is my wife Martha.”

His mother smiled broadly as she shook hands as well, and Clark couldn’t help but search her face, her breathing, to make sure she wasn’t secretly dismayed, disgusted, even frightened. But his super-hearing only told him that she was excited, nervous…happy. Clark swallowed hard. He had made the right choice after all.

A slight cough from behind Bruce pulled Clark’s attention back, and he felt heat rise to his cheeks. “Oh! I’m so sorry! And this is Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce’s…Bruce’s butler.” God, he still stuttered over that label! He hurried to smooth his blunder, “and my friend.”

His parents shook hands with Alfred as well, every bit as cordial as they’d been with Bruce. God, this was too, too surreal. Clark was so used to keeping parts of his life separate—his work as Superman, his reporter persona, his relationship with his family, and his bond with Bruce. Though he hadn’t told his parents close to everything about Bruce—especially not about Batman—this was the first time his personal life had come together in such a way. Everyone in this room knew exactly who he was. He didn’t have to pretend here—

“Now this, this is an amazing home! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so beautifully decorated for the holidays.” Bruce’s voice just a touch too loud, his smile a shade too wide. He let out a gasp of surprise as he saw the antique windmill decoration spinning on the living room coffee table, and he darted into the room. “Wow! Is that one of those German Christmas pyramids? I’ve only ever seen them in the movies.” He knelt down to study the tiny wooden carvings, the blades propelled by the heat of four short, red candles.

“Why, yes,” Clark’s mother said, and followed Bruce into the living room. “My family brought it with them when they emigrated from Germany in 1894…”

As Clark’s mother went into the history of the ornament, Clark stole a look at Alfred. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes were locked on Bruce. Alfred’s gaze shifted over to meet Clark’s, and one of his dark eyebrows twitched up ever-so-slightly. Clark nodded slightly, trying to keep his own expression even. Yeah. Bruce was acting strange already.

“If you like that, Bruce, then you’re going to love the nutcracker collection she sets up in the upstairs entryway every year.” Clark joined Bruce in the living room, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Want me to show you?”

For an odd second, it seemed like Bruce was going to argue, his eyes surprisingly sharp. The moment passed as quickly as it came, though, and he stood with a smile. “Sure.”

“If you don’t mind, I need to get back to the kitchen,” Clark’s mother said, already heading towards the kitchen. “The ham needs one more glazing before it’s ready, and I still need to put together the green bean casserole.”

“May I assist you with anything?” Clark knew it was more than politeness—Alfred was much like Bruce in that both men needed to be always doing _something_.

“Can you peel potatoes?” she asked with a quirk of her lips.

Alfred huffed and began rolling up his sleeves, following her into the kitchen. “Madam, I’ve peeled so many that I almost got a medal for it in the army.”

“You served?” Clark’s dad suddenly perked up, and he followed them into the kitchen. “Where? I did a tour in Vietnam back in ’71…”

The living room was empty now, just Clark and Bruce. Clark opened his mouth to speak, but a peal of laughter from the kitchen stilled his words. Bruce cocked his head towards the stairs, a knowing little half smile on his lips.

“Maybe you should show me those nutcrackers.”

“I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to it all day,” Clark chuckled. He extended his hand to Bruce, and he didn’t miss the full second of hesitation before he took it.

“Your hand is sweaty,” Clark murmured as he led Bruce up the stairs.

“It’s warm in here.” Bruce’s tone was surprisingly defensive. His grip tightened as they went up the stairs, and he stopped Clark midway up the flight. Clark turned to see Bruce studying one of the framed collages of family photos hanging over the staircase. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, feeling his cheeks color. “Ma made one for every five years.”

Bruce was quiet, his face unreadable as he studied the family photos. Clark felt the sudden, irrational need to apologize, but he bit his tongue instead. Truly, what could he say? I’m sorry I had a happy childhood? I’m sorry my mother is sentimental and my father an amateur photographer? I’m sorry that I brought you here? He wasn’t sorry for all those things. He was grateful, to the core of his being.

No, what he was sorry for wasn’t his fault, wasn’t something he could ever change.

_I’m sorry your parents never got to see you grow up, never got to take pictures of you in school plays or at 4H competitions or at your college graduation._

“Clark. Is this you…wearing only a tie?” Bruce laughed, and the bright sound unraveled the knot that had twisted itself in Clark’s belly.

Clark leaned over to study the picture. “Yup, that’s me at two. I found one of my Dad’s ties after a bath, I guess. He always kept them tied because he had so much trouble tying them.”

“I’m going to have to start leaving tied ties around the manor now.” Bruce’s smile took on a salacious hint, his eyebrow raising suggestively. Normally when Bruce looked at Clark like that, he returned the grin, pulled him closer for a kiss or a grope. But here, on his family’s staircase, being watched by a hundred tiny familial eyes, it felt…wrong. His cheeks burned, and he didn’t know what more for—if he was embarrassed by Bruce’s comment, or ashamed that he was embarrassed.

Instead of replying, he simply tugged Bruce’s hand to urge him up the stairs. He had to _talk_ with him, damn it. Bruce seemed to understand, even if his smile flattened slightly. He didn’t even make a comment as they passed the fifteen nutcrackers set up on the antique oak end table on the landing. He simply followed Clark into his room and let him shut the door behind him.

“Am I making you uncomf—”

Clark slammed his lips into Bruce’s, cutting off his words with a sweet, sharp kiss. He’d been wanting to do that since he’d seen Bruce in the airport. Bruce stiffened in surprise, then melted against Clark, wrapping his arms around him to draw him closer. In this moment, Clark let everything drift away—the stress, the doubt, the nervousness—and focused only on the solid feel of Bruce against him, his warm breath on Clark’s cheek, his heartbeat thundering loud as a freight train. He smelled slightly different, his scent crisp, piney, as opposed to his usual deep, musky spice.

“You got a new cologne,” Clark murmured against his lips. “I like it.”

“I thought you might.” Clark felt Bruce smile against him. “It’s festive.”

Clark chuckled as he pulled away, palming Bruce’s cheek briefly. It was smooth and freshly shaven. He’d also gotten a haircut recently, trimmed up along the sides. He’d spruced himself up to meet Clark’s parents. The thought warmed his heart even further.

“Are you doing all right?” Clark asked quietly.

“I thought that was my line,” Bruce said, stepping lightly away from Clark. He looked around the room, and his kiss-swollen lips broke into one of the widest smiles Clark had ever seen on him. “This is your room.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. It didn’t take the world’s greatest detective to figure out that this little room was the one Clark had grown up in. He hadn’t changed it since he’d left for college, and neither had his parents. Sure, his mother had set up her sewing machine on his desk, and his bed was blanketed with half-finished quilting projects, but the walls were still plastered with baseball pennants and old band posters. His collection of model airplanes hung from the ceiling in a forever-suspended dogfight, and the small shelf still held every book he’d read in English class. Bruce walked around, and Clark could tell by how he crinkled his brow that he was absorbing every single detail. In sixty seconds, Bruce would know this room as well as Clark did, and he’d spent eighteen years living here.

Bruce strode to the collection of old high school pictures still taped to the closet door. He pointed at Clark’s junior prom picture, and Clark inwardly cringed at his too-small suit, his too-shaggy hair, the red stain on his dress shirt where he’d dropped a forkful of spaghetti during his dinner at the one Italian restaurant in Smallville. He glanced at Lana beside him, petite and red-haired and lovely, and he wondered if Bruce was the type to get jealous over the past.

“Even back then, you knew how to pick a suit, didn’t you?” Bruce said, dryly. When he turned to Clark, his eyes shone bright with mirth.

“We didn’t all have Alfred and his impeccable taste to dress us for our high school dances.” Clark’s face burned for the hundredth time in the last hour.

“You also probably had a lot more fun at your prom than I did,” Bruce said. “You knew your date. We were all matched up with someone from the girl’s academy. You know how awkward it is to meet someone for the first time by slow-dancing with them?”

“No, but imagine being too afraid to two-step with your date because you’re sure you’ll step on her toe and literally break her foot. Or send her flying through the crowd if you try to spin her.”

“Two-step?” Bruce’s dark eyebrow arched, his lips twisting in amused surprise. “Clark, are you telling me you actually _square danced_ at your prom?”

Clark’s brows knotted defensively. “It’s line dancing! Look, Bruce, this is _Kansas_. I know you’ve been waltzing at your fancy Gotham parties since you’ve been—”

This time it was Bruce who cut Clark off with a kiss, though Clark could still feel the laugh vibrating his throat.

“I love seeing all this,” Bruce said as he pulled away. “I love that I finally get to see this part of you.” He waved around the room. “I know Superman, I know Clark Kent from Metropolis, but I’ve never met Clark Kent from Smallville.”

“Aaaand you think he’s a hick.”

“And you think I’m a city slicker. We’re a cliché in action, Clark. It’s why we work.”

Clark blinked in surprise, biting his lower lip. He’d never heard Bruce speak so candidly about their relationship before. If inviting Bruce here to his old house brought this out in him, then Clark should bring him here more often. Maybe there really was nothing to worry about.

“Boys! Dinner!” Clark’s mother’s voice floated up the stairs, cutting through their little bubble. The butterflies returned to Clark’s stomach.

“Really, you doing all right?” Bruce asked gently. “Your parents seem to be genuinely okay with…with us, but are you?”

Clark balked a bit. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…this is the first time you’ve been _out_ with them. It’s bound to be hard, like unclenching a muscle you’ve held tight for too long. It’s going to be sore.”

“Not as much as it’s a relief,” Clark said. “I feel…lighter. Like, there’s nothing I have to hide from them…” Clark caught the flicker of concern in Bruce’s eye. “Except, of course, who my boyfriend really is. You know I didn’t tell them about…about you, right?”

“I do,” Bruce said, but by the hesitation in his voice Clark had a feeling he wasn’t being completely honest.

“I told them _my_ secret. Batman is your secret. It’s up to you whether or not you want to tell them, and truly, I understand if you never want to.”

“How did you tell them we met?” Bruce asked.

Clark shrugged. “I told them the truth. We met at work.”

Bruce snorted and fixed Clark with a sly look.

“Seriously. They know about the interview I did with you. I told them we hit it off, you took me out to a nice dinner, ditched me there with the bill—”

“Wait…did they charge you for that dinner!” Bruce’s jaw dropped, his face going pale. “I told the Gotham Room to put it on my tab!”

“They told me they were very sorry, but they didn’t do tabs. Luckily, I had the _Planet_ ’s company card, and a boss who was happy to pay any amount to get that interview with you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner! I should pay the  _Planet_ back—”

“Bruce, dear. It’s okay, really.” Clark palmed Bruce’s cheek tenderly. “Come on. You know the story. You’ll do just fine with them.” He paused. “There’s only one rough patch.”

“Oh?”

“I told them you know I’m Superman. That was actually their very first question. They were more worried about my secret identity than, well, my real identity.”

“I’m glad, Clark,” Bruce said quietly. “Not just for us. For you.”

“I am too, but, what I’m trying to say is…they’re worried.”

“About what specifically?”

“They wouldn’t say,” Clark sighed. “They kept saying it wasn’t the relationship they were worried about…it was _who_ it was with.”

“Ah.” Bruce nodded slowly. “I’m Bruce Wayne.”

Clark spread his hands out helplessly. “All they know is what they read—playboy billionaire, a new car and supermodel every week. I keep trying to play up the philanthropy, tell them what they read is all an act, you really just want to help people, but…”

“What would a man like me want with a man like you?” The smile was gone from Bruce’s face. “Your power.”

Clark shook his head, even as his stomach knotted as the truth hit home. “They don’t know you yet, Bruce. They want to. They’re just…just trying to protect me.”

At that, Bruce gave Clark a sad little smile. “That’s what parents do.”

Before Clark could say anything else, Bruce was out the door, heading down the stairs. Clark sighed and rubbed his hand over his mouth as he followed. It could all be worse, he reminded himself. They had welcomed Bruce into their home—on Christmas, no less—to have the chance to get to know him, to see what their son saw in him.

_“We trust you, Clark,”_ his mother had said at the end of their conversation, _“and I…I have to trust we raised you well enough to…to pick someone who values you for_ who _you are, not_ what _you are.”_

He wished he could tell them the whole truth. That really, of all the men—all the people—in the world…Bruce was the only one who could ever fully appreciate Clark both for who and what he was…because he was cut from the same cloth.

Clark hoped that someday, perhaps, Bruce would feel comfortable sharing his own identity with his parents. But right now, they had to get through their first family dinner together.

 

**********

_“They don’t know you yet, Bruce. They want to. They’re just…just trying to protect me.”_

Bruce knew it shouldn’t bother him this much. Of course the Kents were going to have their doubts. Of course they were going to wonder why an old-money aristocrat—a very publically straight aristocrat—would choose their salt-of-the-earth, super-powered son as his boyfriend. Did they think Bruce saw Clark as some sort of exotic pet? No, they wouldn’t have invited him to Christmas dinner…or would they? Were they just that polite? Clark was polite to a fault, and he had to have gotten it from somewhere…

“Bruce, can I get you anything else? More ham? Sweet potatoes?” Mrs. Kent offered, already holding up a serving platter of ham. Before Bruce could respond, she’d already dished another helping onto his plate.

Bruce forced a smile. “Thank you, yes. It’s delicious.” He wasn’t lying. The food was amazing. Clark had whet his appetite for Martha Kent’s cooking with that pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, and he’d been looking forward to seeing what a full holiday spread was like. However, he was having trouble keeping his appetite every time he thought of the conversation he and Clark had had upstairs.

_Stop. Don’t let your thoughts and fears control you, Bruce._

Bruce took a deep, quiet breath through his nose, centering himself in the here and now. He was here for Clark, to support him, to share this part of his life with him. He had to trust that Clark wouldn’t deliberately put him in a difficult situation—

“So, Bruce. How long have you known about Clark’s powers?” Mr. Kent’s voice was quiet, but firm enough to stop the clink of silverware against china. For a moment, the only sound was the merry hum of Christmas carols coming from the stereo in the living room, and Bruce felt every pair of eyes at the table on him.

_Well. Showtime again, I guess._

“On our second date,” Bruce said, fixing Mr. Kent with an easy smile. “He saved my life.”

Bruce could practically feel Clark’s agitation radiating off of him, and he slid a hand under the table to reassure him. _I’ve got this, Kal._

“Thanks to a sterling contact I have at the papers,” Bruce shot Clark a knowing look, “the story didn’t make the press. But, shortly before WayneTech went public with the Atmospheric Moisture Collector, a rival company arranged for my abduction. I was kidnapped out of my own home.”

Mrs. Kent gave a surprised little gasp. “That’s terrible.”

“Indeed it was,” Alfred chimed in. He nodded at Mrs. Kent, then locked eyes with Bruce. “I remember coming home that night to find you gone.”

“What they didn’t know, thankfully, was that Clark was in the house, too. We were having dinner—”

“Sushi!” Clark chimed in, a little too loudly. He seemed to be catching on the story Bruce was weaving. “You’d ordered sushi in for us.”

“And luckily, Clark was in the bathroom when they attacked. It didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened, and…bam.” Bruce clapped his hands. “There was Superman, stopping the getaway truck before it’d even gotten halfway across town.”

“Mmmm,” Mr. Kent nodded. His eyes narrowed slightly. “How did you know it was Clark? Superman.”

Bruce thought quickly. He could play the love-struck sap, _“I knew the moment he smiled at me._ But looking at Mr. Kent, he had a feeling that wouldn’t fly.

“I told him,” Clark said. “After I rescued him, I…I realized just how important Bruce was to me. I didn’t want to have any secrets from him.”

Bruce’s heart swelled in his chest, warmth radiating through his whole body. God, leave it to Clark to actually _be_ the love-struck sap. If they had been alone, Bruce would’ve kissed him right there.

“That was…admirable,” Mr. Kent said slowly. “But a big risk.”

“It paid off.” Clark met his father’s eye across the table, a hint of challenge in his sky-blue eyes. “He’s saved my life in kind. He and Alfred.”

Mr. Kent’s eyebrows shot up at the same speed that Alfred’s did.

Clark stabbed his fork into his mound of mashed potatoes. “I…I had a really bad exposure to kryptonite. Took me out of commission for a few days.”

This time, Mrs. Kent’s gasp was even louder, and she reached a hand across the table to her son. “Clark! Why didn’t you tell us?”

Clark was silent, but Bruce knew the answer— _Because if I told you every time my life was in danger, you’d never sleep again._

“Because Bruce and Alfred helped me,” Clark said, his voice sure and grateful. “Bruce was able to get me to safety, and together with Alfred they were able to get the kryptonite out of my system. Bruce’s dad was a doctor, so they had medical equipment in the manor, and Alfred has medical experience. I…I probably would’ve died without them.”

Bruce was perfectly still, studying the reactions of everyone around the table. Alfred had his poker face on, but no one was looking. Mr. and Mrs. Kent had eyes only for their son, and Bruce knew what he saw in their eyes: fear. Only now, three years after they’d given their boy their blessing to go save the world, did they see how the stakes had been raised. Powerful as he was, Superman was not invincible…and his enemies were starting to figure out how they could truly hurt him.

“That’s why keeping Clark’s identity secret is my number one priority,” Bruce said quietly. He brought his hand up from under the table, bringing Clark’s up along with his. “I know how important his work his. It’s a million times more important than anything I do behind my desk at Wayne Enterprises. I’ll do anything in my power to keep him—and you both—safe.”

Bruce felt Clark’s hand squeeze tighter around him—almost too tight. Bruce fought the grimace that threatened, and only squeezed tighter in kind. He was damned if a little pain was going to make him let go of Clark.

“Well, then we owe you our thanks,” Mr. Kent said, and Bruce didn’t miss the sudden hoarseness in his tone. “Truly. Thank you for helping our Clark.” He turned to Alfred. “Both of you.”

Bruce nodded. “It’s the least I could do, after everything Clark does for…for all of us.”

“Will you guys stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Clark muttered, though not angrily. Bruce turned to Clark and saw the red flush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. It was adorable.

“Sorry,” Bruce said.

Clark bit his lip, and Bruce saw the momentary pleading in his eyes— _Please, let me tell my parents who you really are._ But Bruce only gave him a little smile and shook his head. Not today. Not now. They already were worried enough about their son, and they would only worry more if they knew he was dating the most dangerous man in Gotham. Batman may be a hero to some, but to others he was still just a vigilante in a Halloween costume. Bruce had a feeling the Kents would probably be all right with Batman’s mission…though he wasn’t sure how they’d take his interest in their son.

Perhaps that was a conversation better suited for another time. Like, next Christmas.

Huh. The idea of spending another Christmas here felt surprisingly...natural. Even after just a few hours, he was used to the homey surroundings and  Mr. and Mrs. Kent’s easy demeanors. Maybe part of it was how much Clark had talked about them before, or how Bruce could see their influence on Clark’s personality. Or maybe there was a part of Bruce that just…

_Just liked not being alone on Christmas again._

The rest of the dinner passed fairly smoothly, and afterwards Bruce insisted on washing the dishes—by himself. Yes, it was partially to ingratiate himself to Mrs. Kent, but he had ulterior motives as well.

“You sure, Master Bruce?” Alfred fixed Bruce with a look that hovered between concern and amusement. “I didn’t know you even knew how to wash dishes.”

“He does them when he comes over at my place,” Clark said as he passed by, shrugging on his winter coat. There was a slight break in the weather, and Mr. Kent wanted to check on the animals in the barn. Clark had volunteered to help.  

“The Fortress of Solitude doesn’t have a dishwasher?” Alfred said.

Clark fixed him with a _look_. “I’ve been meaning to get it fixed, but you know how hard it is getting a service van to come out to the arctic.”

The corner of Alfred’s lip quirked up in approval, and Bruce smiled. It was nice to see the two of them finding their rapport.

“All right, then, Master Bruce,” Alfred sighed, “if you know what you’re getting yourself into…”

“Go. Sit. Enjoy Christmas.” Bruce gave Alfred a little push towards the living room.

“Boxing Day came early this year,” Alfred muttered, and disappeared into the living room.

“You sure you’ve got this?” Clark motioned to the piles of dirty plates, soiled silverware, and caked pots and pans. “I could do it all super-fast for you before I head to the barn—”

“You guys act like I’ve never cleaned anything in my life,” Bruce grumbled, rolling up his sleeves.

“Crime scenes are different than dishes,” Clark pitched his voice low, “and really, dear, you don’t have to try to impress anyone.”

_Yes, I do._

“Clark, get a move on!” Mr. Kent called from the mudroom behind the kitchen. “The animals need their Christmas dinner, too!”

“Go. I’m fine!” Bruce forced a smile and nodded towards the door. “Your dad is waiting for you.”

Clark lingered a moment longer, and for a second, Bruce thought he was going to kiss him. Instead, he brushed a hand across Bruce’s cheek, then turned and joined his father. Bruce began filling one of the sinks with water, and was already sorting the dishes when the back door shut behind Clark and his dad.

And finally, Bruce was alone.

He sagged forward, a shuddering breath exploding from his lips. Only now did he let himself feel the full strain of the day knotting itself in his chest. God, this was hard. Harder than he could show in front of anyone. He had to be supportive for Clark, gracious for the Kents, and stable for Alfred. It was exhausting. He wasn’t quite sure why. He was used to wearing masks—his whole life had been a mask…until he’d met Clark.

And that was the difference, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t trying to pretend here, he was trying to be _honest_. Here in this house, with these people, he didn’t have to be a ruthless CEO, a charming bon vivant, or a terrifying vigilante. For the first time in over twenty years, he was genuinely trying to be Bruce…and he barely knew who Bruce really was.

He took a deep breath, and straightened up. Didn’t matter right now. He had a job to do: dishes.

 

**********

It had been months since Clark had been back in the barn, but he still knew exactly where everything was and what needed doing. It was hard and dirty work, but there was something about it that just put him at ease in a way few other things did. Even his work at the _Daily Planet_ didn’t give him the same sense of deep satisfaction, and there was a peace to this that his work as Superman would never grant him. He knew, deep down, that had he been born someone else—someone not gifted with super-powers—that he probably would’ve come back to the farm after college.

_Maybe someday, Bruce and I could get a place like this. Somewhere quiet, somewhere safe...somewhere_ ours _._

“He’s taller than I thought he’d be.” His dad’s voice cut through Clark’s thoughts. He instantly knew who his dad was talking about, and his cheeks warmed. Well. Here it was. Pa’s verdict.  

“You see guys like that on TV all the time,” his dad continued, “you think they’re gonna be smaller when you finally meet him. Not Bruce. He actually looks bigger.”

“He takes care of himself.” Clark hid the flush burning across his cheeks by looking down at the floor of the stall he was mucking. _“_ Has to keep up appearances, you know?”

“I do.” Clark’s dad hesitated. “He does it quite well.”

There was something in his tone, something a little too casual, that gave Clark pause. “Meaning?”

“Meaning nothing.” Clark’s dad shrugged. “He seems like a genuinely nice person.”

“But?” Clark pressed, his chest tightening in apprehension. _Please, please don’t make this strange, Pa._

Clark’s dad sighed, and stabbed his pitchfork into the stack of hay in front of him. “But I get the sense he’s hiding something.”

Clark almost laughed in relief. Well, that much was true. “Of course he is. He’s nervous. He’s never met anyone’s parents before.”

“And we’re honored to be the first. But, I just want to make sure he’s not hiding anything from you.”

Clark blinked in surprise. “Why would he?”

“He’s a public figure, Clark, a celebrity,” his dad said quietly. “He belongs to the people.”

“Superman belongs to the people,” Clark pointed out.

“Superman _serves_ the people. Bruce Wayne…” He trailed off.

Clark didn’t need him to say what he was thinking: _Bruce Wayne serves himself._ Clark physically bit his tongue to keep himself from blurting out the truth. Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath. How could he convince his dad of Bruce’s good intentions without revealing his secret?

“Bruce has many faces,” Clark said carefully, “and the Bruce you see on TV is not the Bruce washing dishes in our kitchen.”

“I know that. And you told us a lot about his philanthropy—”

“No, it’s not even that. Bruce is...surprisingly hands on with his humanitarian work. He’s devoted his life to helping restore Gotham, and he does a lot—a _lot_ —of work that never makes the papers because it’s considered insignificant by news standards. It’s not to the people he helps, though. I’ve seen it first-hand. He’s...he’s a genuine hero.” Clark paused. “You know me, Pa. Do you think that I could honestly love someone who wasn’t one of the good guys?”

Clark’s dad’s brow furrowed for a moment, then smoothed as Clark’s point struck home. He nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good point.” He fixed Clark with a steady look, and for one moment, Clark saw a soft gleam in his eye. “Should’ve known that when you finally picked someone it would be someone...complicated.”

_You have no idea._ Clark chuckled, looking down at his feet. “Bruce and I both did.”

“I just hope it doesn’t get too complicated for you. That’s all.” Clark’s dad clapped a hand briefly on Clark’s shoulder, then let it slide off as he turned back to his work. “When you have a minute, can you hop up to look at the light that's out over in the corner? I think there's a short in the wire.”

“Sure.” He was glad for the change in subject. He knew what his father was saying, even if he’d never say it outright. They were some of the doubts about Bruce that went through Clark’s own head sometimes— _how are we going to make this work in the long run? How are we going to balance Bruce’s public face with his private one? Will there come a time when it’s going to be too much for me, watching him pretend to be someone he’s not, especially when that means I have to share him with his...his diversions? Will we ever decide we’re tired of hiding this, too, from the world?_

He didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. He knew Bruce didn’t either. So, he did what he did every time they surfaced—he let them go. He couldn’t control the future. He couldn’t control Bruce. All he could do was the best he could, and hope they could figure things out as they came along. So far, that had been working just fine for them.

No, not fine. _Great_. The fact that Clark was standing in his father’s barn, even having this conversation about his relationship with Bruce spoke volumes to that. So much had changed between them in such a short amount of time that Clark couldn’t help but feel hopeful for their future…

Especially when Bruce found out what Clark had gotten him for Christmas.

 

**********

Clark hadn’t lied, Bruce had done dishes on the few occasions he’d visited Clark at his Metropolis apartment, but two plates, two wine glasses, and two forks were nothing compared to the tower he faced. He was paying a steep price for his desire for privacy.

It wasn’t as bad as he feared, though, and after a few plates he found a meditative rhythm. Eventually, the tactile sensation of the warm water and the simple satisfaction of seeing each dish clean loosened the knot in his chest. Maybe this was why Alfred took to polishing when he was stressed. Those first few weeks when Batman had made his debut in Gotham, everything in the manor had sparkled.

Bruce stopped short when he saw the serving bowl in his hands. It was Waterford crystal; he could tell by the way the kitchen light caught in the diamond pattern crisscrossing its surface. He…he knew that pattern, didn’t he? His parents had had one like this. He used to watch how the light from the dining room candles caught in the grooves, making it look like lines of fire slicing through the cranberry sauce that Alfred had made. Until the year that Bruce had been curious, too curious, and had picked up the bowl as it sat drying in the kitchen after Christmas dinner. Of course it had slipped through his fingers. It had shattered with a sound as clear and sharp as a scream, the scream he was sure was going to follow once his mother had seen what he’d done…

There had been no scream. No spanking. Just concern for his well-being, a quick check-over to make sure that none of the shards had struck him, and quiet admonishment for touching things that he shouldn’t have. Then his mother had hugged him, and Bruce could still smell the powdery wisp of her Chanel perfume, feel the tickle of her soft hair against his cheek…

“You doing all right in here?” Mrs. Kent’s quiet voice broke through Bruce’s memories, startling him so much he almost repeated history and dropped the bowl. But his reflexes were much more honed now than they had been at age five, and he recovered without Mrs. Kent even noticing.

Bruce tried to speak, but realized his throat was too tight. Instead, he simply nodded, and hummed his assent.

“Your Alfred plays a mean game of backgammon, but I figured I should check on you.” Mrs. Kent joined Bruce at the sink with a dishrag in her hand. “Ah, you’ve found my favorite bowl. That there is the one piece of genuine Waterford crystal I’ve ever owned. It was a wedding gift from my Uncle Merv and Aunt Ginny, from that big Bloomingdale’s in New York. Been at my Christmas table every year since.”

Bruce cleared his throat. “It’s lovely.” His voice still sounded wrong, so he stayed silent as he rinsed the bowl and handed it to her.

“It’s funny, it’s never bothered me that I don’t have the full set,” she said as she dried the bowl carefully. “It’s always enough to have the one.” She looked at it thoughtfully. “Jonathan always thinks it looks odd, having this one fancy dish out with the rest of the china, but I think it just makes it extra special. Different. I like different.”

“I like different, too.” Bruce managed a smile, and this time, he didn’t have to force it. He was shrewd enough to know they weren’t talking about the bowl anymore.

“I gathered you did.” She returned the smile, and then her brow furrowed thoughtfully. She hesitated a second before she spoke again. “Do you mind me asking you a personal question, Bruce?”

Nervousness shot through him, bringing his focus back to the purpose of today. Clark. His parents. Being the model boyfriend. “Sure.”

“You holding up okay today?”

Surprise rocked through Bruce, knocking the butterflies out of his stomach. Now that wasn’t a question he’d been expecting from her. “What? I’m…um…fine?”

She sighed as she grabbed another plate to dry. “I lost my parents young. Not as young as you did, but by the time I married Jonathan at eighteen, I was alone. The holidays were always the hardest, even after we started celebrating them together. Maybe more so. It…it was hard seeing his family sometimes, all being so happy together. They were always welcoming, but…”

“…they’re not yours,” Bruce whispered before he could stop himself. He regretted his words instantly, his face burning as he began scrubbing vigorously at a crusty fork. He was trying to be polite, show the Kents what a good match he was for their son, not what a broody, ungrateful guest he was—

“They are now,” Mrs. Kent said quietly.

Bruce stopped. He wanted to look at her, to read the expression on her face…but if it was as sincere and open as her voice, he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it.  

“I know my boy, Bruce. He’s loyal to a fault. And for him to tell you who he really is, for him to…to tell us about himself and to bring you here…I know he’s going to be yours for the rest of your life. Which means we are, too.” She picked up a glass and studied it as she polished it. “If that’s what you want.”

Bruce swallowed hard. Mrs. Kent didn’t do small talk, did she? She went right to the heart of things, just like her son. Bruce, though, didn’t know how to reply. For a man who had contingencies for every scenario, every combat, every emergency…he didn’t have a plan for “the rest of his life.” Truly, before three years ago it hadn’t mattered, and then after Batman all that had concerned Bruce was surviving to fight another night. Now, though, with Clark in the picture, there was the hope for a future, an actual _life_. He knew what Mrs. Kent said was true. Clark had never said as much—either because he wasn’t sure how to put it in words or he was afraid that it would push Bruce away—but Bruce knew that if he let him, Clark would love him for the rest of his life.

Just like Bruce knew he would love Clark in kind.

“It is,” Bruce said quietly. “I…I would like that very much.”

She smiled at Bruce and brushed a hand over his arm. It was a comforting touch, and it warmed his core, pushed back against the chill that hovered on the edge of his fragile happiness.

“It’s good to know that Clark has someone to remind him of what he’s fighting for. What it means to be human.”

Bruce fought the flush threatening to blossom across his cheeks. There was no way that Mrs. Kent would ever, _ever_ , know that that simple desire of Clark’s had been the seed that had grown into the relationship he and Bruce had today.

“Um,” Bruce cleared his throat, focusing again on Mrs. Kent. “I do my best.”

“I’m sure you do.” She assessed the dishes Bruce had left in the sink. “Go on and let those pots soak a bit, and I’ll get them after dessert. I want to show you some of the photo albums before Clark and Jonathan get back.”

Bruce perked up as he rinsed his hands. “Are there more pictures of Clark like the ones in the hallway?”

She chortled and handed him the dishrag. “Better ones. He never told you about the time he got stuck in his toybox when he was three, did he? Or when he tried to get Shelby to pull his wagon like a chariot after he saw _Ben Hur_?”

“No!” Bruce said excitedly, hanging the dishrag back on the hook. “I have to see these!”

“Come on. I’ve been waiting my whole life to embarrass Clark like this.”

“Happy to help make dreams come true.”

She linked her arm around his and led him out of the kitchen, and Bruce caught the warm, vanilla-infused scent of her perfumed lotion. It wasn’t Chanel, but it was still sweet, comforting…motherly.

A pang went through Bruce, but instead of fighting it, he simply let it wash through him, and within moments it dissipated. Grief was a part of him and always would be, but maybe…maybe it didn’t have to be  _all_ of him anymore.

As he sat down on the couch in the living room, Alfred looked up from the Ansel Adams photography book he’d picked up from the coffee table. He didn’t say anything to Bruce with words, but the subtle quirk of his eyebrow asked the question for him. _Are you doing all right?_

Bruce nodded slightly, and gave him a reassuring smile. _Doing just fine._

 

**********

This was always Clark’s favorite part of Christmas—the quiet after the flurry, after the food, presents, and chores were done. It was when he could simply stop and enjoy where he was, bask in the warmth and comfort of his home. He lounged on the couch, half- reading the copy of _Go Set a Watchman_ that Alfred had given him, but really, he was just quietly watching everyone together, and loving every second of it.

Alfred and his mother were huddled together over the copy of _Mastering the Art of French Cooking_ that he had gifted to her, talking about one of the more complicated recipes. Alfred, in turn, was gamely wearing the bright red and green scarf that Clark’s mother had knit for him. It never ceased to amaze Clark just how quickly she could whip up a gift on her knitting needles—she’d only had three days to make it and the yellow and black one she’d knit for Bruce.

“Gotham Knights colors,” she’d said with a wink when Bruce had opened it. “Clark tells me you’re becoming quite the football fan.”

Bruce had his scarf draped around his neck, and was rubbing the fringe absently between his fingers as he studied the marble chessboard in front of him. It was Bruce’s gift to Clark’s dad, and Clark still couldn’t believe Bruce had gotten it. He swore he’d never told Bruce that Clark’s father had always secretly wanted a fancy chess set, but then again…detective. Clark watched as Bruce hesitated with his hand over the board for a full five seconds before making his move, taking one of Clark’s father’s pawns with his rook. Mr. Kent chuckled, and cracked his knuckles before taking the rook with his knight. Bruce groaned, and Clark had to repress an eye roll. Bruce was letting his dad win.

Clark didn’t care. He was too happy, too calm. If Clark didn’t know better, he’d swear this was some dream, a vision from a ghost or an angel or some other meddling celestial being, intent on showing him the happiness he _could_ have if he changed his ways. But there was no bargain to be struck, no path to change. Clark was right where he should be, where he wanted to be, and it was all because he’d been willing to own up to the truth of himself. He was a lucky man to have such a supportive family…and that seemed to now include Alfred and Bruce.

He looked down at his own gift from Bruce for the millionth time that hour—a new watch. It was sleek and gorgeous, and probably the most expensive thing Clark had ever owned. However, he was willing to forgive Bruce his extravagance when he noticed the extra buttons on the side that most watches left bare. If Clark’s suspicions were correct, Bruce had given him more than a timepiece—he’d given Clark the means to get a hold of Bruce at any time, any place, any situation. Before this, the only way Clark could get a hold of Bruce while he was on patrol was to go out and find him in Gotham. This meant the world. Not only did it mean that Bruce trusted him not to abuse this power…he also now had the ability to call Superman for backup if he truly needed it.

It was all Clark had ever wanted from Bruce. His trust.

It made his public gift to Bruce of a black silk tie seem meager by comparison—even if it was Versace. To be fair, any gift he could afford to give would be insufficient. He had been half-tempted to follow through on his threat to make Bruce some diamonds with his bare hands, but when he’d really thought about it, he’d realized the one gift he wanted to give to Bruce wasn’t something he could gift wrap or give in front of anyone else. It was far too personal.

“What’s this?” Bruce asked as he sat down next to Clark after he’d lost his chess game to Clark’s father.  He was holding the sticky note that Clark had stuck in the box underneath the tie.

“You can read,” Clark said, feeling suddenly shy. He glanced around the living room to see if anyone was watching, but everyone else seemed fully occupied. “You were supposed to find that after you got home.”

“Your real present is hidden in last place you’ll look for it,” Bruce read the note out loud, quiet enough so only Clark could hear. “If you’re thinking of taking over the Riddler’s game, you’re going to need some practice.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll give you another hint. It’s not at the end, but at the beginning.”

“That’s not much of a hint.” Bruce scowled. Clark smiled, surprisingly pleased with himself.

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.”

All too soon, Clark’s new watch told him it was time to get Bruce and Alfred back to the airport. The weather had abated enough for the plane to take off if they left soon. This time, the parting was much more comfortable and heartfelt than the greeting, with hugs and thanks and promises to come visit soon. Clark’s heart swelled in unexpected pleasure as he watched his mother plant a kiss on Bruce’s cheek, and he didn’t flinch away. In fact, he smiled, and thanked her earnestly for everything.

“So, was it everything you hoped it would be?” Bruce asked him as Clark navigated his old Jeep back onto the main road.

“Yes,” Clark said, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. “Thank you. Both of you. This was probably the best Christmas I’ve ever had.”

“I think…I think I can say the same, too, Clark. Thank you.”

 

**********

The next afternoon—after Bruce awoke from his post-patrol sleep—he immediately began searching the manor for clues to Clark’s present. Whatever it was, it wasn’t in the bedroom, or the study, or the media room. It wasn’t in any of the rooms they’d spent time in, or out in the frozen garden. Which only left…

No, Clark wouldn’t, would he?

Bruce went down to the Batcave. He didn’t expect Clark to invade Batman’s sanctuary—even to give a gift—but at this point he was running out of ideas.

_It’s not at the end, but at the beginning._

Our beginning.

Of course.

Bruce hadn’t been in the special lead-lined antechamber of the Batcave where Batman and Kal-El had played their dark games in almost a year. After that last, harsh night when Kal-El had left for the final time, Bruce had come back only once to clean up. He’d stored all the metal and leather toys, and covered the furniture and apparatus in white sheets. He’d told himself he was going to get rid of it all eventually, but he never had.

Even after he and Clark had patched things up, Bruce hadn’t expected that Clark would ever want to come back down here, even if he was willing to experiment again with their games. It was too dark, too cold, too much like the warehouse that Batman had rescued him from after hours of kryptonite-sickness and torture. Even so, it seemed the last choice for Bruce’s gift hunt…which made the first clue make perfect sense: _Your real present is hidden in last place you’ll look for it._

Bruce lifted up the sheet on the metal hospital gurney—the place where he’d first given in to his lust for Superman, before he’d even known he was _Clark_ —and saw a small, flat box wrapped in gold paper lying on the middle of the table. It was about the same size and shape as the tie box Clark had wrapped Bruce’s Christmas present in, and for a moment, Bruce wondered if truly, all this ceremony had been so Clark could give him a second tie.

It was closely followed by a moment of real doubt—healthy paranoia, really—where he wondered if this really was from Clark, and not some sort of trick or trap from one of Batman’s enemies. But, who else knew about the Batcave, or this antechamber? Only Alfred, and he never, ever came down here. No, this had to be Clark’s gift. Slowly, Bruce tore open the paper, and lifted the lid off the box.

Nestled inside a bed of red tissue paper was one of Bruce’s own batarangs.

It took him a full three second to understand what Clark was giving him, and when Bruce did, heat raced from his scalp to his toes.

_A batarang, just like the one I used to summon Kal-El to the cave…to slice his clothes off…to tease him until he was begging so gorgeously…_

Clark—no, Kal-El—was ready to play again.

Bruce didn’t even wait to go to the batcomputer so he could use the phone. He clicked the comm on his wristwatch once, alerting Clark’s matching watch that he wanted to speak. It took a few seconds, but finally Clark’s voice came over the speaker.

“Bruce?” he whispered, both excited and uncertain. “What is it?”

“I…” Bruce felt suddenly dumb. The comms were for emergencies, not for their games. But then again…wasn’t blurring the line between Batman and Bruce exactly what had started all this in the first place? “I found your present.”

“Oh!” Clark sounded more nervous than excited. “Do…do you like it?”

“I wish you were here right now so I could show you just how much I like it.” Bruce tried to keep his voice even, but he couldn’t keep the hint of needy growl from his tone.

Clark’s breath exploded in a shuddering sigh. “Tomorrow?”

“If you have time, yes.” Bruce licked his lips, forcing himself to calm. “But to talk. Negotiate the new terms.” He hesitated. “Are you sure about this, Kal? You’re not just doing this for me? You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, Bruce. I’m doing this for both of us,” Clark said quietly. “I’m ready. I have been for a while.”

“All right, then,” Bruce said slowly, his excitement mounting. “I want you to write a list for me. What you want. What you don’t. I’ll do the same, and we’ll discuss tomorrow after you get off work.”

“Wow. Great. Um, wow.” Clark laughed. “I have to say, I didn’t think the first time you called me on the comm was going to be about _this_.”

“Me neither,” Bruce admitted, “but I couldn’t wait. I had to talk to you right away.” He realized something. “This…this isn’t a bad time, is it? Are you at the _Planet_ , or at _work_?”

“I’m currently hiding in the broom closet at the _Planet_. Not the first time I’ve had to dash in here.”

Bruce chuckled. “Sorry. I’ll use your cell phone next time.”

“That’s probably best. But really, it’s nice to know this thing works.”

“Of course it works. I made it.”

“You know what I mean.” Clark paused. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Bruce didn’t hesitate in replying. It was becoming easier and easier to say to Clark. “Take care out there, Clark.”

“You too, Bruce.”

He signed off, and looked around the cavern. It didn’t feel as empty as it had a few moments before. Now, instead of memories, it was filled with possibilities. It was what Clark did: bring light into the darkest places, turning bitterness into hope.

The gears were already turning in Bruce’s mind as he swept the covers off the table, then off the chair in the center of the room. He paused, and ran his hand over the merlot-colored velvet lining the chair’s back. He remembered just how gorgeous Kal had looked in this chair when he’d been bound, blindfolded, and begging, and a thrill went through his entire being.

Bruce had missed their games. Deeply. He had no complaints about their current sex life—they had plenty of fun without the trappings of their previous relationship. However, it wasn’t the leather and restraints and toys he’d missed. No, what he’d missed the most were the dynamics, how Kal would completely surrender himself to Bruce’s care.

No...it had been to _Batman_ ’s care, back then. That’s why this was such a gift to Bruce. Kal was giving Bruce an opportunity to do what he never could before—give all of himself to Kal. Where Batman had been cold, Bruce could be tender; where Batman had denied, Bruce could permit. He could finally give Kal what he’d always wanted—not just safety in submission, but actual love.

Bruce couldn’t think of a single better present that Clark could’ve gotten him.

 


End file.
